Shatter, Fester, Break
by KiyaNamiel
Summary: Using prose to take a deeper look into Hetalia's shadier 2p characters, why they are who they are and why they do what they do. After all, it should be remembered that they are countries, and we are them and they are us.
1. Oliver Kirkland

Chapter 1

There is a reason Oliver Kirkland likes his 'special cupcakes.' There are few things that he does on a daily basis that have such deep meaning, and his cupcakes are one of them.

Oliver Kirkland has never _hated_ his counterpart, the one with a straw head and eyes like grass with caterpillar eyebrows, lanky and tall and reminding him of a scarecrow standing in one of his beloved fields in the rolling, green countryside. He has never really know such a rich green. In fact, he _adores_ Arthur, if only for those beautifully rich emerald eyes, a shade that he can never capture in his own dimension, where the only colors are somehow related to red or black, or somewhere along the darker tints of the spectrum.

Not that anyone knows this, of course, except for the other counterparts like him.

People say that he and the others are _insane, mad, debauched,_ and all sorts of nasty words that leave him feeling wronged and filthy, as though they are reminding him that they will never forgive the blood that stains his hands and taints his very soul with darkness.

That's one reason he started making his cupcakes. To show them that he cannot clean himself of that mud that still sticks to his reputation as a character of 'another color.' To show them that no matter what he tries, he cannot wash, freeze, or _burn_ the stains off. So he bakes them into beautiful little cupcakes covered with _pink_ frosting - the color of diluted blood - and _shows_ them what he cannot tell them: that he is the way he is because it's _their_ fault.

It's all _their_ fault that he exists, humans and their wars and skirmishes and grudges and their never-ending hate; _their_ fault that he has to do what he does, because _they_ are the ones that have demanded it, to keep the universe in balance amidst the chaos that consumes it from the ruckus people create. It's all _their_ fault that he's not completely sane.

It's not like he particularly _enjoys_ what he does. If only people really knew how much he cared, how stable he used to be, and how much he really did _try_ , because they're _his_ people, and they're the ones that demanded it from him.

Oliver is not very well of sight, though he refuses to wear glasses. There's a reason for that, and it is also another reason that he makes his beloved cupcakes, 'special' or not.

He does not exist for no reason, or just to be the 'opposite' of his counterpart, Arthur. He was created by his and Arthur's people, for the sake of their wars and their grievances. For the sake of _their_ security and _their_ stability, he had to give up his own. So because he knew that Arthur could not do it - for Arthur is far better than politics than he could ever be, and they both know it - _he_ decided to make the necessary sacrifice of his sanity for the sake of their people and their country.

There are always many possible outcomes for war. There are anywhere from tens to hundreds to thousands to millions of possible endings, and in all of them, it is hard to find the best one, or at least _one_ that is fairly acceptable, an outcome where things can be rebuilt and hope will still remain despite the shambles left behind.

His people are known for their magic. Thus, he and Arthur are also gifted with magic. Oliver, however, uses his magic for more than just mere hexing other countries and attempting to defeat enemies. He is a time traveler.

He likes to entertain the thought that there are some of his people that understand him still, despite their fear when they meet him, and so created the popular show _Doctor Who_ to show him that _they_ see, and _they_ understand why he is who he is.

He also travels through time, to prevent disasters from happening in the universe and in history where they shouldn't. Specifically, for his people. For _Arthur._

He can still remember all the times he has traveled back in time, to correct the deadly mistakes his people made, and to nudge them towards a better, more acceptable ending. It takes many tries. He has traveled back hundreds of times for one event, to see his people make the same mistakes no matter what he tries, to see them stumble and fall and crash and _burn._ To see them suffer. To watch them stagger until he can find the right way to prop them up, to help them reach the proper end.

He can remember all the times he has seen Arthur die before his eyes, in so many different ways, heard so many different last words from his counterpart, all of them _trust_ and _confidence_ in his ability to make things right, to fix what they did wrong. Sometimes, he truly wants to give up.

From seeing so much desecration, over time, the pink slipped into his beautiful blue eyes, one of the rare splashes of _bright_ color in his monochrome world. And each time he traveled back, he forfeited a little bit of his eyesight.

He _loves_ his brother Arthur, despite his oddities and freaks that he has no right in criticizing, considering his own. He _cares_ so much. He has fought _so hard_ for Arthur, and for his people, for their country.

And people say that he hates Arthur.

This is why he is a bit poor of eyesight. But he refuses to wear glasses, because Arthur does when he reads, and Oliver does not want to have too much in common with Arthur, because he is his own person and he is afraid that if they have too much in common, he will begin to lose his identity. He does not want that, because he must continue to protect his people - and Arthur, his other, more innocent self.

And this is also why he bakes cupcakes; because he knows that Arthur does not have the best of cooking skills, and he likes this other clear distinction between him and his counterpart.

Oliver both loves and resents Alfred F. Jones and Al Jones. It is yet another reason that he diligently bakes his cupcakes.

He knows that Al is a vegan, so he bakes his 'special' cupcakes to annoy Al because he can't eat them. He also knows that Alfred likes sweet things, so he bakes normal cupcakes to satisfy that sweet tooth. He does them in a mingled way of showing both love and resentment, depending on his mood.

The reason for his conflicting emotions towards his little brothers is because of their past. They _are_ his little brothers, and he loves them because of it, like he loves all of his and Arthur's former colonies. He cannot help but love them, because he watched them grow and sent them into the world to change it for the better. And yet, it was because of Al and Alfred that he was pushed over the brink of insanity that people feared him for now.

The Revolutionary War was something that Oliver does _not_ like to remember.

He can oh, so clearly remember each and every one of the _hundreds_ of times that he traveled back in time to fix each disastrous ending of each and every battle. He saw Alfred die, he saw Arthur die, he saw them die singly and he saw them die together. He saw them kill one another, and he saw them kill themselves.

He saw Alfred fall to the ground and scream in unending pain and sorrow, and he turned away in utter _shame_ at his failure, for putting the ones he _loved_ and _adored_ through so much pain, time and time again as he kept on trying and failing to make things right.

He saw Arthur collapse at his feet and wail, demanding he do something and _bring their little brother back._

He saw Arthur put Alfred in chains, and he saw Alfred take over the world and saturate it with his pain.

When he finally managed the ending that history records, he could not find the strength nor the heart to try to make it better. Instead, he fell to his knees and wept bitterly, then laughed, long and loud and hysterically, because he knew that he was broken.

It was another reason to bake his cupcakes. To break the eggs and remember the moment that he had shattered; to put them in the oven and recall the years his raw, aching pieces had festered; and to frost them and remember the _pink_ of his eyes, the _purple_ of his bruises, and the _blue_ that would never be pure again.

People feared his wide smile, his swirling eyes, and his cupcakes. He didn't see why. Each and every one of them was a tribute to his _beloved_ people, made with _care_ and each detail _obsessed_ over to make sure that they were _perfect_ , to show them his utter _devotion_ and _love._ His smile was only to show them that he _still_ loved them, and despite all that they had put him through didn't have any hatred towards them. His eyes _should_ remind them of what he had done for them.

And yet, they said that he hated Arthur.

He thought they should know better. He baked his cupcakes every day, and there were always a dozen sent to Arthur's doorstep every morning.

His people should remember. Every new skirmish, every new trouble or trial or battle or war; it just made his smile a little wider, his eyes a little pinker, his vision a little poorer, and his cupcakes a little sweeter and a little more 'special.'

After all, they _are_ him, and he _is_ them.

* * *

 _I don't quite know where this sprang from, but it was inspired by something nonetheless and so put it up I shall; not to mention I thought it might be about time to stick my meddling fingers into the Hetalia fandom and show my loyalty._

 _I hope to make a few more of these concerning other 2p characters, but I'll be happy to answer requests! 1p characters are also allowed, though I would prefer if you'd stick with 2p's._

 _Hasta la pasta~! Ve~_


	2. Luciano Vargas

_Chapter 2_

For Luciano Vargas, the reason he likes his "special pasta" is not so much an action of grudge against his people or his counterpart as it is a desire to express himself in the only way he knows how.

It cannot be said that the fact that his favorite color is red is in any way surprising - what is surprising, however, is that he absolutely _hates_ the color at the same time. He dresses himself in it - brocades of red and gold that express wealth and passion and desire - and he drowns and surrounds himself in it through his pasta, his foods, his house decorations, and his daily walks. He revels in painting the world around him red, and that is the reason for his contradicting love and hatred.

In his monochrome world that the others called the "2p" or "another color" universe, the shades of the darker tints of the color spectrum only _fitted_ its inhabitants better than the garishly bright surroundings of the 1p world ever could. Luciano hated the way the others would frown and sneer upon him and his fellow 2p's - didn't they see that if _he_ wasn't there, that _they_ would have to become like him? Their ingratitude was galling.

His country in particular - though honestly he could care less about it - had not been kind to him by any means. Kicked around, bloodied, bruised, handed about like a sack of gold in a business transaction "under the tables," and overwhelmed with the coups, mafias, guerrilla wars, and struggle to defend their national identity, it was unsurprising that Luciano was so fond of the color red. It reminded him of his early years, where he had known nothing but red, warm and wet and sticky. Then when he had been introduced to other colors, and seen what the rest of the world was like, it was only natural to hate that red that accompanied such pain.

But it was still his favorite, because he could say he had witnessed so much and yet was still alive and flourishing and prosperous. Because of _him._ Because of _his_ fortitude and _his_ strength that had delved into the nasty, red-robed underworld of his counterpart Feliciano's beloved land, and dared to wrestle its occupants under his rule and _keep_ it.

Early memories always consist of red. Rooms splattered with it, his body and soul and mind painted with it, and his eyes always exposed to it, hypnotizing in its ability to take on so many shapes and forms and shades and malicious tints. Golden feathers dipped in it, and the color of mahogany wood, signs of richness and comfort.

Learning to keep the unruly and unlawful under your thumb is not an easy task, and requires inhuman amounts of effort, cunning, and harshness to accomplish such an impossible feat - yet he had done it. He had protected the dubious innocence of his weakling counterpart, and took a grudging pride in the fact, displayed by Feliciano's cheerful naïveté. He didn't _hate_ Feliciano per-say, because Feli was living proof of his pride, but neither did he particularly _care_ about him either. They lived their separate lives, and people were welcome to look upon Feliciano as well as they liked, as long as they didn't force him to stay in the same room with Feli for any amount of time. Feli was his pride. He was Feli's shame. And yet, shame and pride coexisted through their mediator of guilt, though they preferred not to see each other's faces.

And so comes the pasta. Denying his people's love of the dish was impossible, no matter if it likened him too close to the air headed Feliciano for comfort; it was ridiculous to even try. However, the addition of his "special ingredient" was not so much an open display of wanting to be "different" from his counterpart as it was a personal resolve. The few and grand pleasantries of his life were always minimized by the bitterness of his position: to protect the safety of his people by managing the treacherous, hazardous, and utterly volatile citizens and low-lifes of the Underworld.

Being head of the Mafia made him have to look over his back at all times, check every new corner to round with readiness, search under every bed he occupied, sweep every room before he entered, and forego all visible displays of emotion that might be seen as a 'weakness' in order to stay alive and continue to keep a lid on the precarious volcano that rumbled within his country. Negotiations sapped his wits, bodyguards his patience, and daily life his energy. Hatred from his people meant nothing; ingratitude was something entirely different.

The rusty taste of the pasta made him remember that he must always be on his guard - always alert and ready for anything, never hesitating to kill such filth he dealt with with extreme prejudice if necessary. It reminded him that the cogs of his world were oiled by blood, sweat, and tears, and that the ever-changing hierarchy was something he must stay above at all times. Reputation was important, whether or not it was real; life was a huge chessboard and he would be the black King and manipulate the black pieces as well as he could.

The pasta was a reminder that red always stains white, and nothing can ever wash it out. If he must be stained with red, let him be immersed in it; let it drive him mad and remind him that there is no hope for ever escaping the physical and metaphorical rooms of scarlet and crimson and vermilion. His duty was set before him since the beginning of his nation, and would be the same until the end.

Was it a wonder that he was not quite all there? Was he to be blamed for getting lost in the red-hued labyrinths of his pressured mind? Was it fair to be hated when all he did was complete with such faithfulness the demanding and impossible tasks that his people set before him?

Injustice is commonplace; his world is red and black - because he _is_ his people, and they _are_ him.

* * *

 _A fill for a request by AzaleaTea to do Luciano Vargas AKA 2p North Italy. I hope I have succeeded and risen to your expectations and standards. It came out a little shorter and perhaps even more vague than the first one, for which I apologize, but I'm not as big a fan of Italy (both Feliciano and Luciano) as I am Oliver, so I didn't have enough information or time to really think about them like I did Ollie._

 _I've always thought Luciano to be indifferent towards his counterpart if not proud of him as a direct result of his own actions; I don't agree with the majority vote that he absolutely hates Feliciano. And considering that Italy is known for their Mafia and Assassins, it was only fitting that I portray that darker side of the beautiful and refined country and mention their turbulent history. It's not pretty, but it's all too real._

 _I was also given the suggestion to do the 1p's thoughts of their 2p counterparts; my answer is that perhaps if I finish the 2p's, I can move on to the 1p's. I suppose we'll have to see. My grasp on the 2p's and 1p's are not quite perfect, since it would take a huge amount of historical research to accomplish that, but I do believe that in general I can manage to portray them in frames that will do them justice._

 _I hope you've enjoyed at any rate, and I'm always ready to PM and talk about my views on both the 1p's and 2p's!_

 _Hasta la pasta~!_


End file.
